


What you expected

by adipocera



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Experimental, Reconciliation, Sickfic, Translation, but it's terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25787533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adipocera/pseuds/adipocera
Summary: [This is a translation of my own story posted over on Italian fanfiction sharing site EFP.]Him needing you, for once.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Kudos: 21





	What you expected

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first post here on ao3 so hello everyone! english is not my first language and i unfortunately don't have any beta readers for my stories yet, so please, feel free to leave corrections and criticism if you'd like! this is merely a translated story that i originally wrote in my first language (italian) as an exercise. if you happen to be italian or speak italian, here is a link to the original story posted over on efp: https://efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=3927268&i=1
> 
> thank you and happy reading!

It was difficult, navigating silence at daytime. Being careful of where you put your foot taking the next step, walking in front of an open window, exposing yourself to the sun's cruel rays as if standing under a stage light; turning the key into the lock with obsessive care, trying not to make noise - but to no use.  
It just felt unnatural, sneaking around in the middle of the day as if the air weren't already so saturated with noise and countless other stimuli: people outside the apartment, chatting, engines outside the building, rumbling, ambulance and police sirens, wailing at any given hour. So it felt unnatural, having the sound on the TV turned all the way down and stiffling exasperated sighs because your best friend was in your bedroom, crying. It felt unnatural, tiptoeing around your own bedroom, pretending not to hear his incessing pain-filled whining; it felt unnatural, to be almost scared of him, your own best friend, or whatever his cancer- his medicine- his despair was turning him into.  
Then the crying stopped, and you knew you would have to run (whether your leg said if you could have or not) and rush to his side and hold the bucket for him, and look at the ceiling, listening to him as he retched and puked until he only threw up spit and he looked sore, spent, and regretful; and he stared vacantly at the mess he made while you stared your own way at some obscure spot hidden in that other mess that was his ruffled hair as the putrid smell filled the air- air you breathed in with secret greed, because somewhere in that nauseating stench you could almost catch something pleasant about it. You listened to him cough roughly and it reverberated within you, something among the lines of a weird comforting sensation. It was his presence. Him needing you, for once.  
It was mortifying alright. You usually hated helping people. But your possessiveness prevailed that time as it had already done a hundred times before, and as it would do a hundred, a thousand times after that. Then the moment subsided, and with it vanished your excuse to be there. He held up his fogged up gaze as if to say cool, thanks, bye and then came a flash of desperate, overwhelming, heart-wrenching affection that instead pleaded stay, talk to me, please, please. But once again something prevailed: this time, it was your love for torture (of yourself and others). And so you unsheathed those cold it's too late now eyes of yours and turned away, and without even looking back you knew he had already buried his tearful face in his hands, throat too sore to yell after you.  
And then the night came.  
At nighttime, navigating silence was much easier, as keeping quiet was a given.  
You slept- or rather, tried to sleep, on the sofa, for the third night in a row, because you could not deal with his constant tossing and turning in his sleep, nor with his sighs or the unnerving sound of him breathing in general, that made you all too aware and afraid of his existence next to you in that stupid bed of yours. Plus, you had had a fight. It wouldn't have been like you to back down from it so soon.  
Awake. You sat down at the piano, brushing the keys with your fingers ever so slightly, without pressing down. The windows were closed, urban chaos confined on the outside. Only the electric glow of the streetlamps made its way through the glass, but no sound could be heard, unless one looked for it, and even then, only a muted, distant humming would have been detected.  
Hesitating. There was, in fact, a way for you to let go of that unbearable nervousness, even if only temporarily: playing. And so you started, slowly, pianissimo, caressing your fingers along the spotless keys, making up a melody as you went along, a melody that told the truth of your feelings - anguish, longing, the stretch towards something, and yet... being anchored to everything else, your crumbling world.  
Focused, perfectly aware of your position in relation to that space- conscious of that pair of eyes boring timidly, but steadily, into your back. He had got up (you figured he was probably already awake) and had stumbled his way through the darkness to clutch at the wall in the hallway where he was now half-standing, half-leaning, breathing heavily.  
You kept on playing your made up song, your practiced mastery at it perfectly hiding the sudden tremor of your hands and pupils. Aware of your position, and now, his position. Aware of his unbalanced steps. He had now moved closer, to lean next to the couch.  
Then you heard him say sorry and it was exactly what you were expecting him to do, because nothing would hurt him more than knowing he had hurt someone else. And that was a dangerous thing, because his guilt-tripping worked wonders on you, better than it did on anyone else (which was too much already) and you hated it, and yet you couldn't help but love it. No one could dream of holding such power over you, the ability to make you stop and consider, to make you even want an apology in the first place. And that, you had to admit, was to be admired. Well, it could have always been more of a weakness of yours rather than his strength, but why argue about it now? So you started a light jazz piece as if you had planned to joke with him all along and you asked what can I play for you tonight?, thinking that it would translate to having accepted his apology, and knowing, deep down, that it was much more than just that.


End file.
